


Prima Luce

by osunism



Series: Get Us There [19]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-04 16:51:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4145355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Light. A collection of drabbles set during the events of Post Tenebras Lux, detailing the little in-between times of Samson's recovery and his burgeoning fascination and attraction to the Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dracolisk

**Author's Note:**

> I know this has been a promise forever but it's finally here.

            It’s the most loathsome mount he’s ever laid eyes upon.

            It looks like a dragon mated with a fucking horse and the end result was mouth full of teeth with a terrible fucking attitude.

            And for some reason, _she_ fucking loves the thing.

            Samson watches her come out every morning, watches the ugly little beast bounce around excitedly, making that shrill chirping noise, the spines on its neck and head flaring. She coos at it…actually fucking coos like it’s a fucking baby. She scratches its head, under its long jaw, and even nuzzles it nose to nose.

            “Argo,” she says in that sweet voice, “have you been kind to the stable hands today?” Samson wants to laugh. The answer is fucking no. That thing has the worst fucking idea of kindness he’s ever seen. His first attempt to feed it wound up a disaster.

            He watches her tack up the thing like it’s an actual fucking horse. She’s going to ride that ugly beast. She’s going to ride it like it’s a fucking horse and Samson can’t fucking believe this shit.

            Sure enough, she leads the dracolisk out of the stables, and from his vantage point he sees the portcullis go up, hears a shrill shriek that might be joy or a fucking dragon dying who the fuck knows, and off she goes.

            “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.” He grumbles, and returns to his work.


	2. Warm Ups

            The first time she heals him, it’s after she’s had him moved to his new cell, which is little more than an empty storage room turned into a living chamber. She tends to his ribs first, with all the clinical detachment of a surgeon.

            “You got healers aplenty for the task, Inquisitor,” he says to her, wincing as she inspects the ugly bruises, still dark in their freshness, “no need to sully your pretty hands on traitorous scum like myself.” She doesn’t speak, just keeps working, smoothing salve over the places where the skin is cracked and bleeding. Samson doesn’t move to touch her, just lets her work.

            “They all seem to be terribly busy tending to the wounded from the Wilds,” she replies casually and Samson doesn’t miss the dig. He chuckles despite himself, despite the pain that bites his bones and makes them feel as if they will crack. His chuckle devolves into a cough.

            “I am glad the deaths of many amuses you so,” she says crossly, then motions for him to lift his chin.

            “You’ve not learned a damn thing if you think the deaths of many would ever amuse me, Inquisitor,” he growls, then groans when his flesh is suffused with a soft warmth from her hands. All at once the pain in his jaw is alleviated, and even his healing lip feels less like a burn and more like a dull ache. Her fingertips are cool against his face, gentle, like the brush of a wingtip. Samson wants to lift his hands, take her slender wrists and kiss the skin.

            He doesn’t, and she pulls away taking that preternatural warmth and comfort with her. He clings to its remnants like driftwood as she leaves him alone with his thoughts and the ache in his bones.


End file.
